sunday review, part 1

So... remember my post from last Sunday about the question, "what would you take?" Among the emails worth reading that awaited me this morning was my daily dose of FlyLady. She helps people clean and organize their homes. A life-saver, she is, but I digress.

FlyLady emails are a digest of helpful information related to how we might function day to day in very practical terms. This morning's digest included the following evacuation guide, which makes so much sense! I'm including it here for our collective edification. I think Ken and I will talk about this over breakfast. And just think, every six months you could have an "evacuation party" to enjoy and replace consumables!

1. PEOPLE: Have a plan for getting out of the house and make sure everyone knows it. Have an emergency bag of food and water for your family. Include wholesome snacks and treats for the children: dried fruit, nuts, peanut butter, crackers and granola bars.
2. PETS: Keep pet carriers and leashes readily available to lead pets to safety. Also take pet food with you.
3. PICTURES: Keep negatives or CDs of pictures in a lock box or at a family member’s home. Have picture albums in one place ready to grab and go at a moments notice.
4. PAPERS: Have all your important papers in a lock box at a bank and only keep copies at the house. This keeps you from panicking. If you have them at home then put them in a folder that you can easily grab if you have to move fast. Color code it so you can find it!
5. PRESCRIPTIONS: Take your medications with you. Don’t forget the ones that have to be refrigerated like insulin. Have small ice chest and cold packs readily accessible to pack and go. If you have babies; remember their formula or medications.
6. PURSES and PETROL: This is where you keep your identification, credit cards and cash. Keep a stash of cash for emergencies and grab it. You may not be able to use an ATM in the event of a power outage. Make sure your car always has a half a tank of gas (or keep some gas cans at home).
7. PROPER CLOTHES and COMFORT ITEMS: According to the weather conditions; gather up a change of clothes along with outer clothing: coats, rain gear, boots, gloves and hats. If you have babies remember diapers. Remember to grab your children’s favorite blanket, stuffed animal or toy. A game or a deck of cards could keep them occupied and calm too.
8. PLANNER/CALENDAR/CONTROL JOURNAL: These documents have all the information you will need from phone numbers, insurance numbers and important dates. They are small and filled with things you don’t have to try to remember.
9. PERSONAL PROTECTION: Many of us still have that time of the month. Be sure and grab a box of your preferred protection. It may be hard to find if you have been evacuated. Stress can cause our bodies to do strange things too. So be prepared. Take medication for cramps too. Did you think this was about weapons?
10. PHONES, RADIOS, FUEL FOR THE CAR: Many of us have cell phones now. Always keep them charged up and have a charger in the car or an extra battery. They may not work in the event of power outages, but then they might. Know which local radio station has emergency bulletins. Keep your battery powered radio tuned to that local station and have plenty of batteries for it. Also keep a old type regular phone that does not operate with electricity. GAS PUMPS don’t work without power either. You can’t leave if your car is on empty. So keep your car fuel tank topped off when it hits a half of tank. This way you will have gas to drive at least a couple of hours. Evacuation routes are usually bumper to bumper traffic. Having a tank filled will keep you less stressed.
11. PATIENCE: This is one of the most important things to pack. Keep it inside of you so that you have a clear calm head. Having your P’s to Preparedness list guiding you will keep you patient. In the event of an evacuation there will be lots of displaced people. Being patient will make things less stressful. Your children need to see you calm and collected. This will help keep them calm too.

That seems like enough to digest for today, the rest of this post will appear tomorrow.  Enjoy your Sunday

friday five: take five!

At RevGals Deb invites us to take a plunge with five. Here goes!

1. Five flowers you'd like in a bouquet or in your garden:
Black-eyed Susans (the one thing I actually have in my wannabe garden!)
Zinnias 
Lupine (alas, too hot here, but I would still like to have them)
Daffodils
Heather.

2. Five books you want to read (or re-read):
Quiet (Susan Cain) 
Daring Greatly (Brene Brown)
Anything by Richard Rohr or John O'Donohue
Any of Julia Spencer Fleming's mysteries (I've only read the first)
The Power of Positive Dog Training (Pat Miller).

3. Five places you want to visit:
Cantabria, Spain (photo)
Assorted towns in Germany where my ancestors lived
Italy
Machu Pichu
Iguazu Falls (South America)

4. Five people you'd invite for tea/coffee/beer and pizza:
Ellen Degeneres
Henry VIII
Leonardo da Vinci
Helen Keller
Mary Oliver

5. FIve chores or tasks you'd gladly give to someone else:
Filing!
Mopping
Filing!
Dusting
Filing!

BONUS: A five ingredient recipe! (This is harder than it sounds!)


Crock Pot Beef Stroganoff

2 pounds stew beef
2 cans condensed golden mushroom soup (not cream of mushroom)
1 large onion, chopped
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
8 oz sour cream
*8 oz. cream cheese

In a 3-quart crock pot, mix together the beef, soup, onion, and pepper. Do NOT add water to the soup. Cook on low for 7-9 hours.

About 15 minutes before serving, cut the cream cheese into cubes and mix into the crock pot. Just before serving, stir in the sour cream. Serve over rice or noodles.



*my recipe didn't include cream cheese in the list of ingredients, but it is referenced in the directions. Good catch by a fella RevGal! I tracked the source and have added it here. Kindly forgive the error.

road talk

Sunday was a busy day. As noted, we began with church. From there we headed to a gathering of our local Preceptory, a "branch" of our Templar priory (there are four preceptories in our priory given the geographic spread of it: middle Tennessee; Memphis area; northern Alabama and north Georgia; and western North Carolina, east Tennessee, and southwestern Virginia). We shared the day and the ride with our friend Jeri, who sponsored us as Templars. 

Apropos of the question that launched yesterday's post--if your house were burning what three things would you take with you to save--I posed the question to Ken and Jeri. The first thing that came to mind for Jeri was a bell that belonged to her great-grandmother. During the Civil War the bell was used to alert people on the home-place of possible trouble, and in one particular case, the impending arrival of Yankees. Great-grandmother and a few others escaped within inches of their lives, but those who remained weren't so lucky. They were rounded up and locked in the house, which was then set on fire. 

This story catalyzed conversation about the cruelties of war, especially to civilian populations who, for the most part, do their best to stay under the radar and mind their own business from one day to the next, and nonetheless pay tragic prices for living or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We lamented the mob mentality that leads to heinous acts like this one, and two different, yet related thoughts and questions emerged for me.

At a recent clergy gathering, ethics guru Stanley Hauerwas from Duke University presented a collection of propositions he is putting together for a book. A pacifist, Dr. Hauerwas spends a lot of his time working with military folk on the subject of ethics (Duke's proximity to Ft. Bragg makes this particularly workable). He shared with us his conviction that, when it comes to the life of a soldier (and I use that term broadly to include all military personnel, if I may be forgiven for doing so), the greatest sacrifice is not one's life, but to overcome the basic human instinct not to take the life of another person. I think this perspective is rather amazing and worthy of considerable thought and reflection. It led into what became a focus of our subsequent conversation in the car on our way to our Templar gathering. What happens to people who are generally "good" when the circumstances of their lives take them down roads that lead them to do horrible things to innocent people? When the circumstances subside and the ordinary course of one's life resumes, does the knowledge and memory of what has been done haunt the conscience? 

I know that in some cases it does. A part of my own family's story is that a raid similar to the one described above took place on a family farm in Georgia where my great-great-grandmother spent her days while her husband was off fighting with the Confederate Army. Blessedly the commander of this unit of soldiers had some degree of decency, for although his men trashed the house, stole family possessions, broke china and crystal and cut off the heads of chickens with the shards, lives and buildings were spared, and at least one item of the household was ordered returned to the family. A family bible went home with one of the marauding men, who on his deathbed dictated a letter of remorse and sent it, with the bible, back to a member of the family.

The broader question remains: how do cruel acts committed under the veil of war affect those who commit them? Has there been any study or research conducted on this? I can certainly understand that the shame attached to such behavior would make it unlikely for someone to confess to such behavior. Perhaps some atone for these sins by committing their lives to doing good, productive and helpful things for others. Maybe some are so haunted that they withdraw into themselves and become shells of who they once were. Perhaps others simply do their best to keep one foot in front of the memory and never deal with its wake. Still others may write it off without conscience at all, chalking it up to the nature of the beast that is war. 

I wonder what we could learn from a conversation about it.  I suspect no conversation would change the likelihood of such acts from taking place in future conflicts, but perhaps there would be a way to help heal the minds and souls that are scarred by the reality. All I know for sure is that it inspires me to pray.

clothed

I filled in yesterday morning for a clergy colleague who decided to take an impromptu trip out of town over the weekend. In the pocket of time between rolling out of bed and leaving for church I ran through a mental checklist of the things I needed to load into the car: alb, prayer book, did I need to take a stole? I would probably just wear the church's stole and chasuble. I found myself tucking into the folds of that thought with warm pleasure, which inspired a random thought.

Have you ever done the exercise that asks the question, "if your house were burning and you had time to collect three things to take with you, what would you save?" The question hasn't been far from my thoughts as I listen to the stories of people being hastened from their homes with wildfires lapping up the ground approaching their abodes in Colorado. In spite of this, I haven't taken the time to think about my own answer, or at least one answer, until I experienced the satisfying thought of donning the chasuble. I made the chasuble with which I was clothed when I was ordained priest, so I own a chasuble and matching stole. That chasuble is one of the things I would save.

In spite of my vocational struggles and the scars I bear from my tenure serving missions and parishes of the Church, I am still a priest, through and through. The liturgical joy of priesthood was affirmed yesterday as I processed into the church, singing an ancient hymn and taking my place in the chancel to lead the congregation in worship. It was an hour of joy and contentment, filled with hearts and souls hungry to be nourished with the body and blood of Jesus, and sprinkled with wide-eyed children whose hands stretched over the altar rail to receive their portion with smiles that they couldn't hide. I coveted especially the two-year old, who, rather than shake hands at the Peace, offered his fingers curled for a fist bump, and to whom I offered mine during communion along with the blessing I spoke as I made the sign of the cross on his forehead. Any niggling wonder about whether it might be God's desire for me to pack my stoles and put them into storage was effectively quieted. 

The experience of the morning--which included multiple conversations about the sermon--was a reminder that I still have a voice to proclaim the Word and bear witness to the power of the Spirit. It remains to be seen how that voice will be used and what path lies ahead for that purpose, but I have peace and confidence that a way will open and make itself known. In a way, the affirmation of the morning served to loose the bonds that have clung to my soul like the tattered fringe of pain. The gift of healing seals a portion of the past and allows me to move forward with a necessary lightness. Amen to that.

I'm still considering the other two things I would save. Photographs are always a prominent candidate for selection. Thank goodness many are now stored online and spared the potential fate of destruction by fire. There is the painting done by my grandmother of one of the views at Melrose. There is the pastel drawing of one of my dogs that my mother commissioned. A silk-screened celtic design bought at the gift shop of Dunvegan Castle when I toured my beloved Scotland to dance, a reminder of that trip of a lifetime. The icons I wrote. Interesting that these are all works of art...

I am grateful this morning for the opportunity this blog offers to record the reflections of yesterday. Such thoughts so often dissipate into the vapor of the day and merge with countless other moments that become lost in the abyss of memory.

Today marks 18 years of priesthood for me. I am grateful for the affirmation that I followed a path that, despite the slings and arrows suffered along it, has been right. For all the pain and agony along the way there are countless blessings that I cherish and hold deeply in my heart, and in my bones. As the good book says (thank you, Tevye), I am a priest forever (Ps 110:4).

Mazel Tov.

1313

According to the stats for this blog, I have written 1313 posts before starting this one. A great number, in my book, seeing how it affirms my birth day not once, but twice!

And on that random note, this post will simply catch readers up on the goings on since that 1313th post (actually the one before it, which promised more news than was ever delivered). It's been a busy time, and I'll try to be brief.

We were actually gone more than we were home in May, with trips serving as bookends to the month. You know already about the first trip to Melrose and welcoming Rock to the world. Here are some pictures that ultimately came our way via mom's camera:

Ken has been immersed in a series of historic fiction novels by Sharon Kay Penman, books I read ages ago and thought he would enjoy given our Templar affiliation. These are set in England and Wales in the 13th century, more of less. Unfortunately he hasn't been able to read them in order, but that hasn't dampened his enthusiasm. "For certs!" he would concur!

This is probably the best picture of us that's been taken in a while. 

The porch chairs at Melrose have probably held up for at least 50 years (they sure don't make stuff the way they used to), but were in need of repainting and recovering. Ken sanded, then mom and I started to prime and paint (there were 4 chairs in total). Until Ken came along and hoisted the chairs upside down with a coat hanger and slapped those babies silly with his paint brush and wrapped up the paint project in no time! He and I then took pains to master the craft of attaching the seat covers. It's not as easy as it looks!

Okay, enough Melrose pictures.

The next road trip was to Durham, NC for a wedding, then a trip down to Augusta for a "gender reveal" party. Silly me, I thought everyone knew what this kind of event was about, but I got more blank looks than I would have thought possible. For the uninitiated, a gender reveal party is an event at which the gender of a baby in utero is revealed.  Some of you already know from facebook, but I'll go ahead and diffuse the suspense by sharing that it's a boy! Another boy! That makes five grandsons!

Back to the wedding... here's the bride and groom. I officiated. This is my goddaughter's sister.

From Durham the plan was to join Kenneth and Trisha with Trisha's family for a camp-out before heading to Melrose for a few days. Alas, the camp-out got camped out, so we had to shift gears and make a last minute alternate plan. We did get to enjoy a few hours at the campground before a sunset departure, which allowed for this lovely photo.

We enjoyed some extra time with family between our arrival and the big event, including pool time with the grandsons, and an afternoon at a local park. I love this picture of Ken and Jude.

Our gift to K&T and baby-on-the-way was a plate that everyone at the party was able to sign. The plate then gets baked and the writing becomes permanent. At least that is the idea. Here's a picture of Travis signing said plate on behalf of his family.

And here's a picture of the parents-in-waiting. We were asked to come wearing either pink or blue, thereby attaching ourselves to a team. The reveal happened when a balloon was popped and blue confetti spilled out. 

I realize that this has been far from a newsy post, but I've run out of time putting this together and am duty-bound to go mow the front yard. 

Until next time, whenever that may be, I bid you adieu.

friday five: got my travelin' shoes on!

  photo from Following Atticus facebook page, used with permission

It's your road, and yours alone.
Others may walk it with you,
but no one can walk it for you.
--Rumi

At RevGals Deb writes: I reflected on this poem for a while and thought about some new "roads" that my progeny are beginning. Both are graduating (one from high school, one from college). I am also looking at a possible new "road" in a much hoped-for job. It's been a winding path to get this point!

So in thinking about our life's journey, and the rhythm of our lives, here are five questions on this theme...

1. What "road" is in your immediate future? 
This is a timely FF for me, since my road ahead has finally become clear! I'm headed toward a new ministry in animal massage. The most immediate road ahead is raising money for the training. 

2. Where have you been "traveling" a lot lately -- and are you going back there? 
To reach the road referenced above I've done a lot of discerning, research, prayer, processing, resting, and now and again hit the real road to visit family and benefit from various changes of scenery.

3.  Who are your fellow travelers? 
In addition to my mother and husband, there are five people whose companionship and support have been critical on this recent phase of my travels. One of them pointed me to RevGals as a place to connect with fellow travelers. One IS a RevGal, and the others I got to know through yet another RevGal. My dogs are also fellow travelers and provide constant inspiration, support, affection, and amusement.

4.  Who are the unintentional companions (or hitchhikers) that you find on the road with you? 
He doesn't know it, but Tom Ryan, author of Following Atticus, has provided regular encouragement and inspiration through his facebook page.

5.  As a family, we always recite "the traveler's prayer" -- a tongue-in-cheek petition as we pull out of the driveway ("Lord, whatever we have forgotten, may it not be important!") What have you forgotten lately, and did it matter?
I can't remember what I forgot on our last trip. Usually we get by without whatever we intended to bring on the journey and we're none the worse for wear.

BONUS: Share a photo of a road you've traveled. Or of traveling companions who have made the journey special. Or perhaps there's a song or another poem that suits your journey. If so, please share!

 

photo taken at the West Hartford Reservoir #6

West Hartford, CT

reporting in

I confess I'm astounded that my last post was a month ago. We've been on the road quite a bit this spring, starting with a visit to Fort Bragg to beam with pride at the graduation of our son as a Green Beret. Then there was the annual spring Templar convent in Huntsville, and most recently a trip to Melrose that combined that ritual with the opportunity to welcome our newest grandson to the world. Lots of good stuff, and certainly plenty to write about.

I'd love to share pictures from the GB graduation, but we've been cautioned not to post identifying material online. Should there come a time when an enemy has access to and a use for such information, undue torture and pressure could result. Although unlikely it's a sobering possibility, and so we keep our pride and our pictures under wraps. I would gladly share them in person. I am including this one, blurry time exposure (the result of insufficient light and movement in front of and behind the camera) from the entry of the graduates to the auditorium. The auditorium was dark, and the group was behind a curtain at the back of the room. Led by a lone piper, the curtain parted, a fog machine imparted a little magic, and the strategically placed lighting that focused narrowly on this group created a dramatic and breathtaking entry. Wish I had a video. I'm still learning how to use that feature on my phone.

 

Okay, I found a youtube video from a previous graduation ceremony. It's not the greatest, but it at least suggests what we saw (you only need to watch the first 20 seconds for the impact). I'm so glad they've upgraded the uniform worn to dress blues instead of the every day basic duty uniform. Love that Scotland the Brave is what the piper plays!

En route to said graduation we had a couple of days in Durham to enjoy the company of a soon-to-be bride and groom at whose wedding I will officiate. The bride is the sister of my goddaughter, and like a daughter to me as well. It was an opportunity to get to the know groom (whom I had met once before), and we really enjoyed our visit with the almost newlyweds. It is totally fun to be in relationship with Jenny as an adult. We look forward to the Big Event and celebrating the new incarnation of their relationship.

We had a great weekend with our fellow knights and dames in Hunstville. The weather was glorious, which is always a delight when traveling through beautiful country, and the occasion launched a new road trip ritual. You may have met Cassie, our not-so-sheepish travel mascot, on facebook, where she made her debut. She has become part of our travels as the result of a querying post about what people consider staples of travel in their vehicles. Cassie has developed quite the personality already, letting us know what sights she wants to take in, and where she might like to have her picture taken as documentation of our various road adventures. She was particularly keen to make a stop at the Laurel and Hardy Museum in Harlem, GA when we were at Melrose recently, but we simply didn't have a chance to work that in. She posed on the tree swing in the front yard instead, and joined us for happy hour when Jimmy and Barbara came for dinner one evening.

Lest she becomes the focus of this post, let's move on to the real highlight of our time at Melrose: grandson number four, Rock! We scheduled this spring's visit to coincide with Rock's anticipated arrival. Due on May 2, we left home the day before. This is the first time we have been able to be on hand at the birth of any of our grandchildren, and it was a complete joy to be at the hospital and have him in our arms so soon after his birth on May 7. Nana loves her boys, and her heart has been captured by this newest addition to the family. We enjoyed time with him at the hospital, back at home, and then for a brief visit to Melrose for an early birthday celebration. Unfortunately  my camera appears to be completely out of commission, so the only pictures I was able to take were on my phone. None of them are focused well, and some taken on my mom's camera are awaiting an opportunity for her to download them and send them on to us. Here, at least, is one I took of Ken holding our sweet newborn. He's precious. Ken too.

I'll save other assorted news and reports for tomorrow. This seems enough for this effort to catch up!

friday five: random is back!

 

 Taken at St. Mary's Conference and Retreat Center

Sewanee, TN

At RevGals Karla writes: Can you believe it is April 12????  Have you finished your taxes?  Here in Boston, the city is abuzz with Boston Marathon anticipation.  We are finally hearing birds chirp in the morning, and even though it was in the low thirties last night, many of us are bravely sporting open-toed sandals.   None of this has anything to do Friday Five, except randomness.   So, in that spirit.......

1.  How are you doing?  What's going on in your life?

I've just returned from the annual diocesan three-day clergy colloquium. Except for one other occasion (that included spouses) this is the first time in more than two years that I have been with my colleagues. I had dropped off the grid intentionally due to a great deal of ecclesially-induced pain. It was not an easy return, and I certainly had my moments of fragility when attempting to share the cause of my absence, but it was really good to be there. Stanley Hauerwas was our guest and speaker, and offered a great deal of food for thought; extended time for one-on-one conversation was greatly appreciated; and time away was beneficial.

2.  Have you ever resigned from a position?  What was the good-bye like?

In terms of church resignations, most of have been hurtful and disappointing. One, however, gave me a truly loving sendoff. I value particularly a gift given me on that occasion in the form of a kind of scrapbook. There were photos, handwritten notes and pieces of  newsletters and other assorted "press" from my time there. What I especially appreciate, however, is the list of names of the people I baptized, married and buried. The construction of the book is such that I was able to supplement those sections with pictures I had of the individuals and couples in the lists, and when I occasionally go back through that album those are the pages over which I linger. 

3. So, we are still resurrecting...still getting used to New Life!!  What is a source of new life for you?

My husband and I have been worshiping the last several months at a church that is what I call a Quaker community with sacraments. Perfect for this Quakepalian! There is a great emphasis on social justice, and a theology more interested in welcoming and ministering to the spiritually hungry and the wounded than following any proscribed dogma. The music is incredible, blending traditional, seasonal hymns with offerings of songs out of folk, bluegrass and rock traditions. What makes the music so good is that it is very well done. One of the perks of being in Music City! I will preach there for the first time on Pentecost, and am so, so grateful to find a place to have a sacramental ministry.

4.  My friend is running the marathon on Friday, because it is on her bucket list.  What is something on your bucket list?

There is some travel I'd like to do, but in terms of some other things there are just two items on my list. One is to make a gingerbread house. The other, a recent addition, is to go sky-diving with my daughter-in-law (seeing a video from when she did it for the first time inspired me!).

5.  Tell us about one precious thing (tangible) you keep around your house, your altar, your pocket, and what is its story?

I have an assortment of things that are precious to me that were given to me by other people. A handful of special things are by my own hand. One of them is this icon I wrote four years ago at a workshop I served as chaplain. It is The Virgin of the Passion, and the experience of writing it transformed my relationship with Mary.

another stream of consciousness

As part of looking for work Ken and I have come to terms with the very real possibility that relocation might be necessary. We are fine with this. Except for the investment we've made in our home with various improvements and refreshers (and by investment I don't mean financial), there's nothing keeping us in the town where we live. People who were friends have become acquaintances, and the community-based groups with which we've been associated have shifted in importance for us. Having one foot lifted to put out the door--should it come to that--is a good place to be when you consider how absolutely bonkers our state legislature is. They're not fooling anyone with the use of the word "reform," which is simply code for stripping the substance out of every possible good thing that has been in place to benefit the citizens of this state. Okay, they are fooling a lot of people, but mostly because those people just don't pay attention and/or don't care. It's enough to turn my still-brown hairs gray. Thank goodness for color in a bottle.

Then again, relocation might simply mean 30 miles to the west (e.g. Nashville). While Ken is up to the straps of his bib overalls volunteering at Thistle Farms (think construction), the worship at St. Augustine's is more and more alluring to me. Yesterday the priest associate absolutely knocked the sermon out of the proverbial park, moving me to tears, and the blend of traditional hymns and folk-style/bluegrass/country sequence music, offertories and communion melodies almost has me dancing (I swayed in the pew). I had more than a few twinges during the morning thinking of how much I would miss St. A's if we were to move away. Let's not think about that.

After church we attended the adult ed hour on natural burial. Say, what? Here's Wikipedia's definition: "Natural burial is the interment of the body of a dead person in the soil in a manner that does not inhibit decomposition but allows the body to recycle naturally." The conversation with the presenter of this topic also addressed ways to make the experience of laying a loved to rest as personal and fulfilling as possible. Fulfilling might be an odd word, but when you consider that this woman lost her 26 year-old daughter to brain cancer, she didn't want to relinquish her daughter's body into the care of strangers during the rituals of farewell. She and other family members and friends washed the body, wrapped it in a shroud, and shoveled the dirt back into the grave when the body had been lowered. As she put it, she was the first person to wash and comb her daughter's hair, and it was only right that she be the last person to do so. Those who are interested in the practice of natural burial seems to appreciate two components of this. One is the personal involvement in the literal last rites connected to the person who has died. The other is an appreciation for and commitment to being friendly to the natural world: not adding concrete and steel to the ground through vaults and caskets, or toxins like embalming fluid to the earth's soil. Even shrouds are prepared organically and certified as suitable for burial. Wood coffins are made without using metal nails, and so on. 

These various components of natural burial have sort of captured my imagination. I'm still reflecting on the things I learned and letting various ideas pop into my head. In some ways this is a natural progression of thought, launched by my father's death a little more than a year ago, and come full circle now at Easter as we celebrate and consider the meaning and implications of resurrection. There are several other posts that could be catalyzed by that last sentence, but for now it is enough to say that the ground of my imagination has been tilled to receive these new thoughts and consider what meaning they might have for me. 

And then there are the crape myrtles, zapped by frost and needed attention to come into bloom. Isn't it ever thus? We live, we die, we are reborn. We lose, we grieve, we grow. Thank goodness we have each other to help us through.

sigh

Reader-be-warned: what follows is a rant.

Do you ever stop to consider that you are part of a statistic? In most cases such inclusion is benign, like the fact that I'm part of the percentage of white women who have an advanced degree, or part of the percentage of women who are ordained. Yada yada.

It's not so benign when the facts or circumstances of your life dump you into other categories. Unemployed, for instance. Ouch. And now, thanks to congress, I fall into a new category: a person with reduced health benefits. As a military dependent my health insurance is the result of your tax dollars at work. (Mine, too, by the way, lest someone think I'm sitting idle here living low on the hog.) Let me say right up front that I thank you for that benevolence.

Back to statistics and the consequences of congress. Not long ago I received a letter from my insurance carrier informing me that my existing plan was being discontinued. Now, instead of co-pays, I will be paying a percentage of my bill. Ouch again. Because of this I almost cancelled a scheduled appointment with my doctor last week. I had to weigh the cost, literally and figuratively, of showing up in order to get a couple of prescriptions renewed. I could go without the prescriptions, but let's just say that one of them keeps my cholesterol level in good shape, and the other manages pain level for a certain affliction that really sucks, while simultaneously helping me function like a normal person, whatever that means. I opted to shoulder the financial cost of the visit. I'm actually in pretty good health, a few issues notwithstanding, but particularly as I age I'm a continuing believer in the benefits of preventive care.

Then yesterday I get a call from the doctor's office telling me that my insurance carrier is requiring a pre-certification on one of my prescriptions. Apparently they don't want to cover this medication any longer and are requiring justification to remain on it. But here's the kicker. I am required to meet with my doctor to answer some health questions in order for this to be accomplished. I'm told that this cannot be done over the phone, despite every well-articulated argument I assert through the phone at the poor office assistant who makes her living making calls to share this kind of news. (I'm really sorry, Jennifer. I hope you've developed a thick skin and don't take any of our outrage personally.) The alternative? "I" can decide to use a different medication that is covered. Huh? I'm not in any position to evaluate the benefits of a medication for my particular physiological quirks. So here is my choice: incur additional financial burden because the insurance company isn't happy with my doctor's comfort level a week ago with prescribing a certain medication or wing it with my health.

Here's what I hate (and there are very few things that I hate). I've actually been feeling pretty upbeat this week. In spite of having to cancel a trip I was looking forward to, in spite of having to contort my  life to appease the requirements of the state in certain matters, in spite of a handful of other thorns in my side, I've been exulting in the Light that beams from a certain recently-celebrated resurrection. A phone call later my voice is quivering and tears are running down my cheeks because the carefully constructed dam that helps keep me intact through the refining fire gets punctured and I suddenly feel deflated.

I have been angry with congress for ages because of the cold-hearted disregard that is demonstrated toward those who need help. Now my anger is personal. Now the helplessness with which I empathized looks back at me in the mirror. Now the narrow road of care upon which I've been walking is narrower and more precarious. I feel like the mythical Haggis who clomps up the mountainside on uneven legs only to topple to the bottom when it reaches the top. This is such an exhausting kind of life.

Mind you, I will recover before the day is over, but it's not just picking up where I left off. It's like getting knocked off your feet while carrying a carefully ordered stack of papers. Everything gets scattered and now needs to be collected again. And put back in order. It makes a person crazy.

If you're still reading, thanks for listening. You are now free to unbuckle your seat belt and roam about the cabin.

The Mary Passions: Easter Morning

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This reflection is the third of a three part series titled The Mary Passions. The Mary Passions take the biblical text for the Passion of Christ, the anointing of Jesus' feet, and the resurrection and re-imagine them through the lens of Mary, the mother of Jesus (Palm Sunday); Mary of Bethany (Maundy Thursday); and Mary Magdalene (Easter).  All three may be found at Feminist Theology in an Age of Fear and Hope

These reflections were inspired by The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski, and written in collaboration with The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig (Palm Sunday reflection) and The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley  (Easter morning reflection).  Anne Fraley wrote this Easter Day reflection. 

The Passion of Mary Magdalene

Easter Morning

I had not slept. Since leaving Golgotha I had been overwhelmed by despair. Whether from gray skies and starless nights or the weight of grief pressed against my heart, I do not know. But I did not sleep—my mind raced, struggling to grasp our crushing loss.  Was he truly gone, my beloved Jesus, my friend?

I was there, crouched beside his mother as we watched the wind whip against the bareness of his body, the force of which blew his hair across his face.  I could not turn my eyes from his. I did not want the memory of his suffering to burn itself into my mind, so I looked only at his eyes.  I must tell you, his eyes were extraordinary. They bore the pain of his injury, a tender, forgiving dullness outshone by deep and abiding love. I do not know how such contradictory expressions could be revealed at once, but I should not be surprised. He is no ordinary man.

I remember that my hands were numb. His mother and I clung tightly to one another during those endless hours. She was drained of strength, stumbling several times as she stood faithfully near her son. A merchant whose curiosity had led him off the path as he left the city gates drew a cushion from his stores and brought it to Mary to ease her plight.

Jesus’ breathing became shallow, yet he did not fight what he knew awaited him. He raised his head a bit and looked at us. Upon his mother he looked long and with deep devotion. I felt the tension slip from her being with a deep sigh, and when I looked her face was drawn with comprehension and the tug of peace suggested a smile.  My eyes shifted back to his, and in the deepening darkness of them I saw the world gathered to him.  He did not smile, but the same peace that touched his mother radiated from him. Our eyes locked in wordless farewell, and with one last, penetrating gaze he entrusted his heart and wisdom to me and released his last breath.

Mary sank against me, and I was grateful for the need to tend to her as the enormity of our loss gripped my soul. I remember little else, for which I am glad—no one should endure the agony of love being stolen from them.  What I recall is that we were swallowed by the deep darkness of night, and there remained until the song of the birds alerted us to this dawning day.

We gathered our oil and spices and ventured into the early morning light to go to the tomb. We did not speak. The ritual of this loving obligation to the dead was well known to us, and conversation flowed between us in the sorrowful echoes of our footsteps.

It looked as it did when his body was laid to rest two days before. The entrance to the tomb, small but easily accessible, was marked by the scars of its recent hewing, jagged and raw.  I felt oddly comforted by its gaping darkness, as it reflected the state of my own soul—jagged, raw and dark.  Perhaps it was for this reason that I gathered the folds of my dress around me without hesitation and ducked through the opening to confront the reality of my lifeless beloved.

The others followed behind me, and our eyes adjusted to the darkness with growing puzzlement.  “He is not here,” my voice broke the silence after several moments. We looked at one another, fear beginning to creep into our blood. I set the ointment down beside the lonely shroud that had wrapped his body and made my way around the perimeter of the tomb. It was as empty as I felt.

Of a sudden the tomb was filled with light, as though the sun had breached the horizon and directed its rays to illuminate our devastated world.  So vivid was the light that at first we did not see the two men who stood before us in radiating brilliance. It was too much for our heavy hearts to bear, and our knees gave way to our fear as we fell to the ground, averting our gaze from this terrible wonder.

“Do not be afraid,” one of them spoke gently. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.”

My thoughts reached deep into the mystery that was this man we all loved, Jesus, whose teaching changed our hearts and thus, our lives.  The experience of him, of what had become known through him, began to take hold and banish the fear that had begun to settle in my heart. I had no answers, but neither was I afraid.  “He is not here,” I heard my voice again, this time with a hint of confidence.  Could it be? Was it possible that the promise of his triumph was more than a metaphor, that it was, in fact, the miracle we were blessed to witness here in this tomb?

“He has risen?” queried one of my companions behind me, and another shouted with excitement, “He is risen!”

In one heartbeat we turned to find the men gone. The light, however, continued to fill the emptiness, permeating our hearts with the fullness of love. Then grief gave way to awareness, and in that shattering awareness we began to leap with a joy that we had never known.

Before we knew it we were rushing from the tomb toward the village, and before long we came upon the place where the disciples had gathered. Peter, hearing our ruckus, got up and began to move toward us. When he saw who he were he stopped, puzzled by our exuberance.  One by one the others got up and moved toward us, and by the time we reached them they were drawn together in a cluster of confusion and concern.

Peter grasped my arms in his hands. “What is it?” he demanded, fearing, I think, that our mourning had given way to delirium. We began to talk all at once, sharing the gleeful news of our Lord’s rising. The significance of our words began to sink in, but they were backing up and turning away, dismissing our claims as fantasy and wishful thinking. Only Peter continued to listen, but doubt, too, clouded his eyes. 

At last we fell into silence, and Peter looked at each of us, furrows of weariness and the weight of sin etched across his forehead. “Go home,” he said at last. “You are tired. We are all tired. We will talk soon.”

In stunned silence we turned away and began our walk to the place where we lodged. I turned once to look back, and saw Peter begin to move in the direction from which we had come. Our heads were swimming, our hearts were bursting, and in a daze we returned to the city while the miracle of the morning began to take hold and fill us with hope and expectation.

That evening Peter came to see us, bringing with him the oil and spices we had abandoned at the tomb.  I knew when I saw him enter the doorway that he had seen and believed. His face was no longer ravaged by the bitterness of the last few days, but was illuminated by the light of joy and renewal. I took the jars from him and wrapped my arms around him, and in that moment we felt buoyed by the love that been bequeathed to and would now sustain us.

We talked long into the night until the full impact of all we had witnessed and come to understand was within our reach. Outside the door, stars hidden from view the previous nights seemed to sparkle with a new brightness, and though my heart still ached with loss, peace coursed through my veins like a soothing tonic.

He was risen. The world might appear the same, but in each breath I took I would draw in the power of love as I served God’s people with compassion and mercy. There was joyful news to share about the God of our people, and as the knowledge of that love unfolded in the days to come, lives would be healed and restored, love would bind wounds and forgiveness would open hearts to reconciliation.  Our Lord had work yet to do, and we would be part of it. He was risen indeed. Alleluia!